


The years of the sitting chicken

by laughingpineapple



Category: Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective
Genre: Gen, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:42:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingpineapple/pseuds/laughingpineapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If years with a cat can teach you anything, it's how to play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The years of the sitting chicken

 

 

 **The years of the sitting chicken**

  
Detective Jowd is a man of solid habits as well as principles, and the formers are handy to lean upon when one's ethical framework has been going downhill for years now.  
He still thinks of himself as a detective, for one, holding onto the risks and sacrifices that had led him on that path, the good and the bad and everything he's ever done or thought of doing while wearing his badge. Then there's the little rituals. By going through their motions, he can tell himself that he is maintaining a grip on the progression of his days.  
Lynne's calls are one such anchor.  
And in the past he used to take the utmost care in knotting his tie, the red one that Alma had bought him to brighten up his suit. It was never left crumpled, never just loosened and taken off. It was their tie, in a way, and he paid respect to that.

It is a pity that the prison's laundry doesn't seem to be able to recognize red from white (resulting in, well, the brightest shade of pink, not that he cares) and silk from rags. Clueless amateurs, the lot of them. He remembers the soft flowing of cloth, the subtle checquered pattern that was meant more for the fingers than for the eyes, and all he can feel now is the frayed ends of a piece of fabric that prickles like rough cotton. Jowd crosses one end over the other, creates the loop, takes the wide end down and left and right and through the loop and tightens it up with both hands.  
Something slips.  
Something turns glassy and it may just be his vision.  
There is comfort in this blur.

He jolts at the ringing of the phone outside his cell, rich with the promise of familiar, loving voices. His memory feels damp and the only undeniable moment of clarity is that he is not in the least surprised. He knows how many seconds will pass before the guards come to lead him to the receiver. There is no need to fret. He unfastens the slipknot from his neck, raises his collar and has a few heartbeats to spare to look at the strip of fabric he must have somehow ripped from his bed sheets.

Yomiel retracts hastily, shaken and grinning through spectral teeth. Sensing a body tense and struggle to react for lack of oxygen is the closest thing to an authentic feeling he has experienced in a long while. And the rush of hatred that flowed through it, that made it real.

He barely calls it 'manipulating' with Jowd. It takes little more than a nudge under the surface when his pieces are all lined up already, barely submerged and ready to sink.  
He cannot wait for him to start painting his wife.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> …the frak did I just write? I’m pretty sure that [this prompt](http://i.imgur.com/1JYx1.jpg) wasn’t meant to be filled this way (yeah, my mind honestly went OH, A RED TIE. I HAZ RED TIES. For real.), but ok. Aaand there's another prompt that's from Portal 2 but could very well be part of GT's script, "I've been *really* busy being dead. You know, after you *murdered* me!".  
> Events like this one happening from the Alma incident onwards have been part of my headcanon for a while, I just never planned to, well, go and write them. It’s… not my usual field. At all. I hope it turned out decent.


End file.
